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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/28245546">The Nice List</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/GaryOldman/pseuds/GaryOldman'>GaryOldman</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman &amp; Terry Pratchett</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Christmas Fluff, M/M, Post-Canon</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-12-22</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-12-22</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-10 18:13:39</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>2,896</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/28245546</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/GaryOldman/pseuds/GaryOldman</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>When watching Christmas movies with Anathema, Crowley can't work out why no one else seems to believe in Santa when he's been receiving gifts for years.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Aziraphale &amp; Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>5</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>94</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>The Nice List</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The cottage in the country was the perfect picture of English Christmas, but to be honest, Crowley had sort of forgotten about the whole thing. It seemed to Crowley that years flew by, quick as a breath in and out, but this year had been different. </p>
<p>Of course, there had been the apocalypse, which felt simultaneously five hundred years ago and yesterday afternoon. Then there’d been everything else – the stopping – the thinking – the moving to the South Downs and the eternal cycle of tea, hot chocolate, wine that they played every day. Crowley was used to going fast, but he’d learn to slow down if it killed him. </p>
<p>When the knock came, he and Aziraphale were reading. Of course, that is to say that Aziraphale was reading (his yearly pilgrimage through Dickens) and Crowley was stretched out in black silk pyjamas on the rug in front of the fireplace. </p>
<p>“Oh, they must be here!” Aziraphale twittered over the top of his book. “Would you be a dear?” </p>
<p>His companion had forgotten to mention exactly who must be here, so one miracled outfit and pair of sunglasses later, Crowley opened the door and was surprised to see –</p>
<p>“Newt… what are you-?” </p>
<p>“Anathema is parking the car. She dropped me off with the bags so we wouldn’t have to carry them up the alley,” he said as if that answered any of his questions. Crowley looked down, and there were indeed two sizeable suitcases, one battered school-boys backpack and a bag woven out of rope filled with boxes covered in colourful paper. </p>
<p>“Come in dear boy, you’ll catch your death out there,” Aziraphale said at Crowley’s back, though that might have been a bit of an overstatement. The wind wasn’t even blowing. </p>
<p>The now-present host ushered the human man into the house, and then promptly stuck his head out of the door to see Anathema at the front gate. </p>
<p>“Hello dear, good to see you!” </p>
<p> 	Ten minutes later, Newt and Anathema were settling their bags into the spare room in the western side of the house and Crowley rounded on his housemate as he boiled up the tea in the kitchen. </p>
<p>“When were you going to tell me that we’re going to be playing hostess?” </p>
<p>“Oh, I’m sure I told you,”</p>
<p>“You most certainly did not” </p>
<p>“Are you sure? Well, sorry, but it’s Christmas and they didn’t have anywhere else to go, so-“</p>
<p>“It’s not Christmas”</p>
<p>“It is”</p>
<p>“Already?” </p>
<p>“Yes, dear,”</p>
<p>“Ugh. Fine. How long are they staying?” </p>
<p>“Until the New Year,”</p>
<p>“Angel!” </p>
<p>“Did you have other plans?” </p>
<p>Crowley’s mind flashed with memory of their routine – the days punctuated by nothing but hot drinks and ‘good night, dear’, and his absolute torture of wondering how much slower he could possibly go – </p>
<p>“Fine. They can stay!” </p>
<p>“Splendid,” </p>
<p>	Which is how Crowley came to be sitting in his favourite armchair (an ancient, fusty piece of furniture claimed by the demon the second Aziraphale had moved it into the cottage from the old London flat) on Christmas Eve watching Elf. Anathema sat across the room on their sofa (stylish, chosen by Crowley for the ‘aesthetic’, and completely devoid of all comfort) watching the film intently. Newton had left early that morning to pop into town to pick up some final preparations for the big day tomorrow – Aziraphale had excused himself to his study (a room packed floor to ceiling with every book he refused to part with when he sold the bookshop) to finish A Christmas Carrol – leaving Crowley and Anathema with the unending stream of Christmas tripe. </p>
<p>	By their third film of the day they’d managed to make a game out of it. Whoever could spot the most ridiculous jump of logic when it came to the practical uses of magic and miracle got to eat an After Eight. There were only enough of the treats left because Crowley continued to refill the packet every time they neared the last few. </p>
<p>	As the credits for Elf began to roll, the pair took another handful of sweets each, and Anathema began to browse the channels for another film.</p>
<p>“One thing I don’t get” Crowley said around a mouthful of chocolate “is that all these films are about the same bloody nonsense. Oh I’m a dumb kid and I don’t believe in Santa!” </p>
<p>“Or ‘I’m a business woman from the big city coming home to my small town for the holidays, I hope I don’t fall in love with the sexy town-decorator who’s parents died at Christmas!”</p>
<p>“We’re adults who don’t believe in Santa, but also don’t question where all of these amazing presents come from’. It’s lazy, is what it is. And who’s going to buy that anyway?”</p>
<p>“Buy what?” </p>
<p>“The whole Santa thing,” Crowley said. </p>
<p>“Kids like to have things to believe in, I suppose. Some cultures have gremlins that eat naughty children – Western Christianity pretends an old guy in a red suit breaks into our houses to leave presents for kids,”</p>
<p>“Pretends?” Crowley was really confused now. </p>
<p>“…yes, Crowley. You do know that Santa isn’t real?” </p>
<p>“I’m older than this planet. I’m pretty sure I know the truth about Santa Clause…”</p>
<p>“He’s a myth, Crowley” </p>
<p>“Well, where do all the presents come from then, eh?” he was quite confident that he had her there.</p>
<p>“The parents, Crowley,”</p>
<p>	The next film began to play and so Crowley let the argument die, but it didn’t make sense. Crowley didn’t have any parents. </p>
<p>That evening, Newt returned with bags full of fish and chips, which he assured everyone was a Pulsifer family tradition for Christmas Eve, and they all sat around the fire watching old episodes of Doctor Who and drinking wine.</p>
<p>Crowley wasn’t really there though – he was in his old flat back in London, all too ready for the 1950s to fuck off and be done with when he took a break from his VeryLongNap to grab a drink only to find a present in a stocking at the end of his bed. </p>
<p>Then he was back in some dinky village in Cornwall doing a job for Aziraphale in 1891 – he was the only one staying in the pub, but he was awoken by the landlord’s kids squealing about presents. That was the first year he’d seen a tree inside – bizarre tradition, but there under the small shrub in his rented accommodation was a little gift. </p>
<p>Waking with a hangover from an excellent Italian wine, on a beach somewhere in Greece in a year sometime in the 1700s. A string tied to his finger pulling a box out of the sand.</p>
<p>Going back to the very first one, Crowley had known it was Christmas because he would wake to a gift addressed to him. No matter if there were wars, or if he was in a ridiculous location, or even if he hadn’t been awake for 6 months – he always woke up to that present. </p>
<p>After dinner, Crowley excused himself to his room. There was very little that Crowley brought to the cottage from his flat – a few pieces of art, his plants that were thriving in the greenhouse in the garden, and a box. The box was a carved wooden thing, hundreds of years old and opened exactly once a year – December 25th, wherein he would place the latest gift tag, dating back 600 years or so – whenever he’d decided to actually start keeping a hold of them. <br/>Crowley opened the box now, and began to finger through the collection. The tags changed over the years – parchment turned to paper turned to gaudily decorated gold leaf gift tags – strings turned to ribbons and tinsels – but the handwriting remained the same. </p>
<p>
  <i>Merry Christmas, Crowley. </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>Crowley, happy festivities, love Santa</i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>Crowley, all my love, St Nick. </i>
</p>
<p>	What was Anathema talking about? Maybe she was just on the naughty list – that would make sense. Crowley didn’t know too much about the legalities of the naughty list, but he was sure that witchcraft probably had a bit of a bad rep in the eyes of the jolly man.  </p>
<p>There was only one thing to do, Crowley decided as he packed the box gently away. I’m going to catch Santa in the act and show Anathema. </p>
<p>Crowley didn’t need to sleep, though he often liked to, and neither did Aziraphale, but since moving into the cottage they’d made a habit of returning to their own chambers in the evening to give some routine for their days. Sometimes Crowley would sit awake, head lolling against the wall that backed against Aziraphale’s room, wondering what he was up to in there – reading, mostly likely. He spent most of his time reading these days. </p>
<p>Tonight though, as Newton and Anathema excused themselves and Aziraphale followed quickly behind, Crowley stayed put. He dimmed the lights, turned off the tv, and sat in his (Aziraphale’s) armchair attentively. The picture would have been a bit psychotic if he wasn’t wearing the penguin pyjama set that Anathema had given him ‘as an early present’. </p>
<p>The whole thing was frankly quite boring. Crowley had been a long time without having to entertain himself in the dark, and it wasn’t something he’d missed much. He was almost tempted to go up to his room to sleep – maybe Santa wouldn’t deliver if he was awake – when the clock struck midnight and he heard a noise.</p>
<p>Footsteps began to creak down the steps, growing closer and closer to the door of the lounge. Crowley was ready to wake Anathema with the click of his fingers, but as the door slowly pushed open something surprised him.</p>
<p>“Aziraphale?” he whispered. </p>
<p>	There he was, his Angel, decked out in his little Golden Snitch pyjama set (a gift from Anathema), standing barely lit in the light of the dying fire. The moon shining through the window behind him, touching his hair with a halo of blue light like the angel he was. </p>
<p>“Crowley, what are you doing up? In the dark? Alone?” </p>
<p>“Trying to catch Santa” </p>
<p>“Oh dear, Anathema didn’t show you the Grinch, did she? I warned her –“</p>
<p>“No,” Crowley rolled his eyes. “We were talking, and she thinks Santa isn’t real, so I thought I’d prove it to her” </p>
<p>	The feeling in the room changed, so much so that even any humans who might have found themselves in the room at that time might have noticed the shift. Crowley, ever oblivious to the waves of energy he had felt for 8000 years, noticed nothing. <br/>“Oh my dear,” Aziraphale said softly. “Do you mind if I turn on the light?” </p>
<p>“Go for it,” </p>
<p>	By turning on the light, Aziraphale meant encouraging the fire to keep on burning, warming the room up with a bright orange glow. He stepped further into the room and perched on the edge of the stylishly uncomfortable sofa. <br/>“I suppose we should talk,” Aziraphale said.</p>
<p>	Crowley had spent every day of the last 6 months waiting to hear those words – every ‘my dear’ that was finished with some inane request for hot chocolate, every sigh that went unfinished, every creak of floorboards outside his room at night had been hell. But this didn’t feel like the conversation Crowley needed to have – he couldn’t let himself hope. </p>
<p>“Santa is real, my dear,” Aziraphale said softly. </p>
<p>“Not you too,” Crowley rolled his eyes. “I can see why the witch is on the naughty list, but you’re an actual angel – surely not you too?” </p>
<p>“Crowley, I’m being honest,” which, of course he was. </p>
<p>“I have –“</p>
<p>“Gifts?” </p>
<p>“Yeah,” </p>
<p>“Crowley,” </p>
<p>“Oh” he took a breath, cursing himself for not memorising every trinket given or saving every note from the start. “Why?” </p>
<p>“Well, at first it was to say thank you for your help on that one day, you recall? But after that I got a bit… of a reputation, really. You’ll think me silly, but I found it quite nice to leave little gifts for the children around the towns we were in,”</p>
<p>“You’re Santa?” </p>
<p>“No, don’t be silly. I may be slightly something to do with some of the rumours, but who’s to say? Anyway, after that, and the whole thing started spreading, I just…”</p>
<p>“What?” </p>
<p>“Well, again, you’re going to think me a daft old fool. Silly Angel, silly sentiments, but I suppose I wanted to show you that you were… on the nice list, you know? You’d never let me say it, but I wanted you to know,” </p>
<p>Crowley didn’t feel the overfilled armchair under him just then – he felt the wood of the bench they’d sat on that night, passing wine between them and the taste of the words he was so close to saying. Aziraphale watched on, unable for a change to read the expressions that passed through his companion’s eyes.</p>
<p> When Crowley returned to the room, his face was as composed as ever.</p>
<p>“Suppose I owe you a few thousand years of gifts then, eh?” he laughed, ready to take everything he wanted to say and brush it off, ready to go slow, ready to return to the tea, hot chocolate, wine cycle. </p>
<p>If Aziraphale was disappointed, he didn’t show it. Instead, he pulled a small box from behind his back and handed it to Crowley. The wrapping paper was plain brown (“eco-friendly!” he explained later) decorated with small painted Christmas trees. The tag was a similar style, and inside the familiar handwriting of his gift-giver. </p>
<p>
  <i>Dearest Crowley, </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>There is no gift to match your goodness this year, but I can only hope that this goes some way to showing you how loved you are. </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>Yours ever so sincerely,</i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>Santa.</i>
</p>
<p>As he read over it, the last word faded away, and the name on the card changed – <i>Aziraphale</i>.</p>
<p>“You can open it if you like. It’s Christmas, afterall,” </p>
<p>“I can’t,” Crowley said, closing his eyes and wrapping those words around the recesses of his heart a dozen times. “I can’t. I can’t do this, Angel” </p>
<p>“Please, Crowley?” </p>
<p>“Whatever is in this box, I don’t want it,” he felt the control he’d built up like barricades over the last fifty years begin to fall away, toppling him in their wake. “You know what I want. It’s the only thing I want. It’s the only thing I’ve wanted for 8000 years, and I can’t promise that I won’t still want it 8000 years from now. I’m sorry, I am. I’ve been watching too many stupid Christmas movies, and now I’ve gone full bloody Vanessa Hudgens crying in a Christmas film” </p>
<p>A hand touched Crowley’s warm, but not with heat. There were very few times that Crowley felt properly rooted inside his form, but this was one of them – Aziraphale’s skin against his, like a fish returning to the ocean. </p>
<p>“Open the box, Crowley,” Aziraphale said, not without softness, but also not without impatience. </p>
<p>So he did as he was told. Managed to tear his hand away from Aziraphale’s touch, and tug at the ribbon holding the box closed. It fell away, and Crowley popped the lid, revealing two pieces of paper. </p>
<p>“Thanks,” he said, shutting the lid back on the box and starting the process of composing himself and his barriers. </p>
<p>“Look at it,” Aziraphale said with a mightily un-angelic tone. </p>
<p>	Ever the servant, Crowley did it – took the paper out of the box and looking closer.</p>
<p>“Two cinema tickets?” </p>
<p>“Yes!” Aziraphale said chirpily. “Do you like it?” </p>
<p>“I don’t know. I think I was expecting something a bit… grander? Thanks though.”</p>
<p>“No, Crowley. Two tickets,” </p>
<p>“Great, I’ll go twice?” he said, tying an untidy but very tight knot around the box and wanting nothing more than to get away from Aziraphale’s soft blue gaze and to his bedroom to sleep until the New Year.</p>
<p>“Or you could ask someone” </p>
<p>“There’s only one- oh,” Crowley mumbled before it struck him. He forced himself return the gaze. Azirpahale looked so tentative. “Are you asking me on a... date?” </p>
<p>He spoke so slowly that every word allowed room for interruption. None came. </p>
<p>“Well, I was actually rather hoping you would ask me on a date with the tickets, but I suppose in a roundabout way I was doing what the kids call, wooing you,” </p>
<p>“Kids don’t say that,”</p>
<p>“They do!”</p>
<p>“They haven’t said that for 200 years”</p>
<p>“I think you’re mistaken,”</p>
<p>“Aziraphale?”</p>
<p>“Yes, Crowley?”</p>
<p>“May I kiss you?”</p>
<p>“Yes, Crowley,” </p>
<p>	There were no jingle bells – no John Williams score playing over the top – not even a camera pan to the burning fireplace. Every movie blurred together into this big stupid thing that was nowhere near representative of how fantastic a Christmas miracle really felt. Crowley fully intended to leave bad IMDB reviews for every single one, the moment he could bear to rip himself away from Aziraphale, which he suspected wouldn’t be until around next Christmas, because there was nothing stopping him from kissing being he loved, and it would take more than a bit of eggnog to get over that.  </p>
<p>	Eventually, when the sun began to rise over the hedges of their garden, and the world began to light up, they found themselves sitting in front of a dying fire, hand on top of hand. There would be more Christmases, more kisses, more holding, and more time to make up for 8000 years of love unshared. But for now, something more important occurred to Crowley.</p>
<p>“So, you’re Santa, huh?” </p>
<p>“Long story – I’ll tell you after breakfast,”</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Just a quick lil sappy bit of fluff for you! I hope you enjoyed it and that you're staying safe this holiday season! </p>
<p>&lt;3 G.</p></blockquote></div></div>
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